Cheers To You, Father
by Neko-chan -Silvered Tongue
Summary: Mirai Trunks... ...memories come and they make others relive the past. His thoughts of the past...and of his father.


Cheers To You, Father

By: Neko-chan  
  


A/N: I've been wondering what it would have been like for Mirai Trunks several years after he returned to the future, leaving behind new friends and a father he just barely got to know. This idea kept on bugging me and...viola. New story to write. I hope you enjoy this story at least somewhat. Ja ne! ^_~

DISCLAIMER: Does Neko-chan look like Toriyama? No? Thought so. Does that mean that Neko-chan owns Dragon Ball, DBZ, and DBGT? Only in her dreams. Only in her dreams...  
  
  
  


It was cold. And it was raining.

Darkness seemed to press ever closer, making the large room seem smaller than it actually was. Shadows filled the corners, shifting with the soft firelight provided by the raging fire going on in the hearth. Slowly but surely, liquid amber warmth began to fill the room, making the lone figure scoot his armchair closer to the fireplace. He was young--no older than twenty-five or twenty-six--but his eyes spoke of the things that he had experienced in his youth...and the things that he knew he would have to experience in the future. His hair was to the middle of his back, though it had been kept short until he was seventeen and eighteen. From that point on, he hadn't cut it.

There were too many memories attached to _how_ it had become so long.

He didn't normally dream. But dreams plagued him, along with the nightmares, at this time of year. In fact, the very next day would the anniversary of the very first day that he had gone back into the past. It seemed like such a long time ago, but only a few years had passed. It seemed like forever. It seemed like eternity. It seemed like a moment in time, a beat of the heart...it seemed like nothing at all.

Time didn't seem to matter anymore.

It hadn't, not since the time that he had spent with his father, training, allowing a year to pass in the Room of Spirit and Time...while only hours passed in the outside world. ...if time was that fragile, and that easily manipulated, then what did it matter at all? Except...

Except fort this time of year. The anniversary mattered.

He met Son Goku. He saw what his sensei, Son Gohan, looked like and acted like as a child. So innocent and yet so full of strength. Even when Gohan had been all grown up in his own timeline, he had still somehow managed to keep that same innocence. It was...heartening. But Gohan was still dead _here_. He had seen how his mother was a young woman. He was fiery, brave, full of sarcasm, intelligence, and humor. She was still the same. And he loved her all the more. He would do anything for her. Now...she was the only thing that he had. She meant the world to him. Everything. Everything and beyond.

And Trunks had finally come face to face with his father.

The young lavender-haired man smiled slightly and tilted his hand to one side, making the deep yellow liquid inside the glass swirl about in circles. His father--the one that he had never met. He one that he HAD met, despite all odds. Trunks took a sip from his drink.

In the beginning, Vegeta hadn't liked him much. The young man snorted. Vegeta hadn't liked him AT ALL. The Saiya-jin Prince was arrogant, cold, distant, pompous, and powerful--all of the things that a Prince was required to have. And he didn't like Trunks one bit.

After all, why shouldn't he? Trunk had been able to become the youngest Super Saiya-jin ever. ...a bitter smile... And all that had been required of becoming the youngest Super Saiya-jin was to hold his dead sensei's body close to his chest and howl his rage to the world.

To grow up with no one except for his mother.

To grow up with no friends.

To grow up with constant fear.

To grow up hating the very things that you feared.

To grow up knowing, that if those things attacked, you could do nothing to save your mother.

To grow up wondering what your father was like...

After it was all over, Trunks was glad that he had had the chance to better understand his father. To meet him. To see for himself what his father was like. In the beginning, he had regretted desire. But...after getting the chance to REALLY know Vegeta...Trunks was glad for the patience that he had somehow managed to gather. All the arguments. All the fights. All the beatings which Vegeta tried to tell him was 'training sessions.' And, to him, they _were_ training sessions. The exact same training sessions he had received as a child. No wonder Vegeta was so harsh...so ice-cold...so unmoving.

In the beginning, Trunks hated him.

But now... Well, now he wasn't so sure.

Did he still hate Vegeta? No. Of course not. Did he still not understand his father? Once again, no. How could _anyone_ possibly understand Vegeta completely? Perhaps the only two people that had managed to accomplish that were his mother...and, surprisingly, Son Goku. Two very different people--after all, his mother was as different to Goku as night was to day. But they both somehow were able to understand Vegeta on a level no one had previously been able to reach.

Trunks knew that he hadn't been able to come even _close_ to understanding his father. He wouldn't claim to. And he knew he hadn't. But still...on some level...he understood the Saiya-jin Prince as Bulma and Son Goku weren't even able to. That was the bond that he was able to make with the cold Vegeta.

The Prince had probably resented him at times--and, after all, why shouldn't he? But...maybe....could he have felt _proud_ of his son? Trunks didn't know the answer, but...he hoped so. Oh, how he hoped so. It hurt thinking about what he would do if the answer was no. And, in the end, Vegeta might have possibly begun to care for him... Maybe. Possibly. There was a chance. It was a slim chance...but there was still reason for hope.

After all, hadn't Vegeta gone into a frenzy when Trunks had died?

Maybe not _love_, but still... Something...

Trunks sighed and drifted away from these thoughts, leaving his memories far behind him. He stared into the flames, their bright dancing reflected in his dark blue eyes. He smiled slightly and raised the hand that held his amber drink, toasting the flames and the dark night beyond his home. Still smiling softly, he drained the drink and closed his eyes.

"Cheers to you, Father."


End file.
